How to Handle a Client
by PhotonsBeFree
Summary: One-shot. A tale of Foster, Lightman, an angry client, and peach cobbler.


A/N: I wanted to write something fun, and this is what I came up with: a story of pure silliness. It's an homage to all of that great Lightman/Foster trickery in season one. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own any television shows. Not one.

How to Handle a Client

Foster tried her best at putting on a sweet smile, though she couldn't help letting go of a frustrated sigh.

"I understand that you're upset, Mr. Everett, but I assure you that Dr. Lightman and I . . ."

Mr. Everett turned around, showing Foster a face overflowing with rage. Foster couldn't help but ease back a little into her chair, away from the client. Once again, she was grateful that she and Lightman had decided to put transparent walls in the conference room.

"You and your . . . _partner_ . . . think you know everything, don't you? Well, you _don't._ I'm not paying you _good money_ so you can run around and take your tests and come back with _lies_!"

"Mr. Everett, The content analysis suggests . . ."

"I don't _care _what your little graphs and charts say, I _hired_ you to clear my company's name, not for you to tell me that my accountant's _dirty._ I'm going to find the man who referred me to you and knock out a couple of his _teeth_!"

Foster took a deep breath to calm herself. She was an experienced psychologist—she could handle this. She'd handled worse, come to think of it. But she saw the tightened fists at Martin Everett's sides and knew she would have to choose her words carefully.

"As I said before," she made her voice calm and spoke slowly, "this is only a preliminary analysis. We still have some more interviews to do, and I know the truth is hard to hear, but I'm confident that our report so far is accurate. We have our best people working on this."

"If you're right, _Miss_ Foster, I could lose _millions._ The feds are already investigating me, and I can't afford to . . ." he pursed his lips and shook his head at the ceiling, "Look, I'll double your fee if that's what it takes. I'm coming back tomorrow, and you'd _better _have good news for me. I'm warning you, and all of your scientist buddies. I'm paying you to clear my name, not to _drag me through the mud_!"

With that, Martin Everett stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. When the coast was clear, Lightman poked his head into the conference room to find his favorite shrink with a bowed head and closed eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and pointer finger.

"Having a nice chat with the client?"

"Yes, Cal." She smiled reluctantly at her own sarcasm. "He's quite the gentleman."

In no time at all, he was standing next to her, his hands on her shoulders in a gesture of comfort. She relaxed visibly at his touch.

"Next time, you should let me at him."

Foster tensed up again.

"Oh, no. You know what happens when you get the angry ones—I prefer it if we get paid, thank you."

He grinned. "From what I hear, he's paying us twice what he was going to."

"Well, I am a woman of many talents." She took another breath, then stood up to face him. Lightman was wearing his usual—black. "He's going to come back. If he was angry today, do you have any idea how angry he's going to be tomorrow?"

She hid her face in her hands, and Lightman cocked his head to take it all in, admiring her knee-length purple dress. Somewhere between marveling over her perfectly-shaped legs, slim waist, and soft hands, the shame and frustration in her body language found its way inside of him. A woman like Foster didn't deserved to get yelled at, especially as a reward for telling the truth—something had to be done when such a beautiful woman was in such pain.

Without any warning, Lightman grabbed her gently by the wrist and started walking towards the door, pulling her behind him.

"Where are we going?"

"First, we're going to finish those interviews, then, we're going to prepare for the tornado."

"What? How?"

"We're going to a bakery."

"Cal, did you just say 'bakery?'"

* * *

The next day, Martin Everett was back in all of his glory. Lightman and Foster could hear him coming, screaming at intern after intern as he made his way down the corridor. He would be there any second. Lightman put a hand on Foster's arm and gave her a reassuring wink.

The door flew open.

"You're _supposed_ to be professionals—what on_ Earth _do you think you're doing?"

The world's greatest deception experts were sitting in the break room, stuffing themselves with a steamy, sugary treat. They seemed too interested in their dessert to notice Everett at first, but after a few seconds, Lightman put down his fork and glanced up.

"We're having a bit of peach cobbler. Would you like some?"

Everett put two fingers at his right temple and swallowed.

"Are you telling me," he growled, "that I'm_ paying you_ to _sit there_ and _eat _while my company is falling to pieces? Are you _idiots_?"

Foster was barely stopping to take a breath, and Lightman gulped down another mouthful before giving a look of pure, unadulterated innocence.

"Is that a 'no,' then?"

"_What_?"

"Is that a 'no' to the cobbler?" Lightman could feel the smile micro-expressions he couldn't suppress, but he was sure that Everett wasn't aware of them.

"_Of course _I don't want any cobbler!"

"Are you sure?" Foster dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "It's very good."

"We had it delivered fresh just a few minutes ago. It would be a shame to waste it," Lightman added, exchanging a glance with Foster.

"All I _want _to know is that my company's name is cleared. I gave you plenty of time to work your _voodoo_, so I'd better get the results I _paid _for." Everett was panting, and his face looked like it was going to burst.

"Ah, that," Lightman said. "Well, the file's right there." He pointed to a blue file folder on the table in front of him, and took another bite of cobbler. "It's all bad news, I'm afraid. Turns out your accountant embezzled a fortune by committing tax fraud. I'm sure there are some legal options." He swallowed and licked his lips. "So, why don't you sit down and have a bite? It'll do you good."

"Peaches are rich in fiber," Foster added, barely able to maintain her composure. "And, they're good for your skin."

"You have lovely skin," Lightman said, and Foster nodded happily. "I don't know any blokes with such a glow about them."

The "glow" on Martin Everett's face was reddening into a shiny crimson.

"If you _think_ that you can . . ." Everett leapt forward and snatched up the file angrily. "I am the _CEO _of Everett Industries. If you think that you can . . ." He almost reached out to strangle them both, but they looked so ridiculous—two grown people, wearing professional attire, gorging themselves like children. At ten in the morning. It was absurd, and that made it infuriating.

After stomping his feet and throwing out a few obscenities, Everett stormed out of the break room, the file clutched in his hand.

"I'll just be sendin' you the bill, then," Lightman called after him. "You said you'd double our fee, is that right?"

The scientists managed to sit in silence for a few seconds longer before collapsing into laughter. The look on Everett's face, in conjunction with the sudden rise of blood sugar, made Foster and Lightman howl and roar, convulsing into chuckles that came straight from the belly and permeated the walls to fill the entire office with the purest form of happiness. When they ran out of breath, they simultaneously groaned and drew a sigh, then cracked up all over again.

"That . . ." Foster said, between giggles, "that was evil. We shouldn't have done it."

"Nah, he got what was comin' to him. Serves him right for yellin' at you." He turned and mischievously planted a very sticky kiss on Foster's cheek, which made her erupt yet again. She hugged herself as if to stop from exploding.

"Oh, my sides hurt. I still can't believe we did that." She struggled to keep still enough to put her hair back in place. "I can't believe that I kept a straight face."

"Like you said, Love, you're a woman of many talents."

The laughter in the break room didn't stop until every last bite of peach cobbler was gone.

THE END


End file.
